


The Return of Son of Watson’s Woes

by NairobiWonders



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angels, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Joanlock - Freeform, Reichenbach, and Pratchett and Gaiman, angsty, good omens wannabe fic, implied major character death, my apologies to doyle, slight injury description
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-02 07:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19436845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/pseuds/NairobiWonders
Summary: Giving the Watson’s Woes July prompts another go this year! Note these are quickly written within a 24 hour period. Majority of fics will probably be in the Elementary-verse but not all of them.Prompts:July 7 - Lost in Translation: Use a non-English phrase or quote in today's entry.July 6 - In emergency break glass: Include broken glass in today's entryJuly 5 - image prompt. See chapterJuly 4 - Include a favorite book or work of literature in your entry today.July 3 - Bloody Weather! Include some meteorological elements.July 2 - Write any version of Sherlock Holmes in the style of another authorJuly 1 - Use an explosion





	1. Chapter 1

Watson has lived with Sherlock long enough to adopt a new set of criteria for what normal is:

Rumbling explosion shakes the windows and rattles the doors - she goes to the stairwell and shouts down to the kitchen, “You okay?” Getting a muffled answer of, “Yes, fine,” she returns to her reading. 

Drags in a foul smelling black tarp, the size of a small corpse - Joan covers her nose with the sleeve of her cardigan, “Final work on your decaying pig experiment?” Sherlock nods gleefully. She goes for a run not even asking how he got a dead pig home from the marshes ... subway, she muses as she heads toward the river park. 

Hands her a plate of something pink and gelatinous - she takes it, gives it a sniff and asks what it is. Looking very proud of himself Sherlock answers, “Vegetable protein, styled and flavored to duplicate the consistency and taste of raw monkey brains. Made it myself.” Joan shrugs, picks up the fork and gives it a taste. 

A file of crime scene photos is flopped on her bed - Joan stretches and sits up taking the breakfast tray he has carefully prepared for her. Sipping her tea, she listens attentively to the latest evidence and his new theory, adding her own thoughts as she shares her toast with him.


	2. An Angel in Devil’s Shoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July 2nd prompt: Write any version of Sherlock Holmes in the style of another author 
> 
> My apologies - I could never come close to the wit and freshness of Pratchett and Gaiman... but vainly I tried. AU of Joan and Sherlock as lesser seraphim in the Good Omens world. Beware: it’s written fast, grammar was left standing outside the door and I’m not really sure it makes sense. But it was fun writing. I may have to give this one another go when there’s more time
> 
> Title is paraphrased lyrics to U2’s “Angel in Harlem” (Thanks for reading!)

A menacing air of menace and an ill-wind full of, well, ill circled the city.

The demon Holmes and his counterpart angel, Watson, sat side by side on the bleachers in Times Square and watched humanity scurry by in a panic. 

The squabble of tourists, “I’m getting Granny a Big Apple butt pillow, I don’t care what you think,” the Mega-screen (not to to be confused with the Megatron, although Watson sometimes wondered if they were one and the same) blasted out the day’s horrors amidst dancing colored-candy adverts, the stifling heat, the volume of vehicular noise and exhaust all added to a the very human joie de mayhem. 

“I’m going to miss this,” Watson shook her head. This time around they’d given her a female body. She’d lost her previous incarnation in a cricket match of all things... an errant ball, a box of matches, and poof, like a bad magic show, all gone. The head office had not pleased. 

Holmes was still Holmes though, albeit a tad more hirsute and tattooed. The one you think would disincorporate more frequently what with his less than pristine lifestyle, grunted in mild surprise, “Really Watson, it all stays pretty much the same, don’t you think? It’s always on the verge of ending and yet never really does.”

For all his nonchalance when around her, Sherlock had moved heaven and hell to get here. Actually, it had been more like surreptitiously switching the place names tags at a Cousin Betsy’s wedding table, but still, he got here and had gotten to sit next to his Watson for the past seven years while waiting until his next “fall.” The next one would be soon; he felt it. Holmes understood it was his lot, the fallen angel, to just kept falling - bridges, buildings, waterfalls, wagons. Bruised but intact he’d pick himself up and wander about until he found a way back to Watson. He didn’t think she realized the depth of his eternal commitment, at least he hoped she didn’t. Watson realized. 

He sensed a certain melancholia drifting in their direction and abruptly stood. Action always sent sadness scampering. “Come Watson, lets grab a spot of lunch. Russian Tea Room perhaps?”

She stood and smiled, “How about The Ritz?”


	3. In the wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July 3 - Bloody Weather! Include some meteorological elements. 
> 
> A slightly angsty Reichenbach-toned entry

She rarely brought flowers. He wouldn’t have liked it. She talked to him instead about whatever case she was working on, asked for advice, cried. He wouldn’t have liked her crying either but that couldn’t be helped. 

The cemetery was almost abandoned today. Dark clouds loomed and the wind was picking up. Joan walked the familiar path to his grave. Seventeen months since his passing and still she grieved as if it had just happened. Deep within her the terror of that night still pulsed; his drop from the bridge into the black abyss still played on in a silent, endless loop.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as she approached his headstone. “Hey, Sherlock,” she leaned on her umbrella and greeted him, her voice cracked, betraying her sadness. This week had been a constant stream of odd occurrences, familiar and then not so, that prompted memories and feelings that would not be contained. More so than usual, she felt he’d been with her, never far from her side, walking the crime scene with her, standing beside her examining the evidence wall, sitting by the fire...

Uncontrollable tears ran their course down her cheeks and a soft gasp of pain escaped her lips. Joan bent her head and allowed herself to cry. “I miss you so much ... so much.” 

The wind swept across the gravestones and then around her, sending her hair flying in all directions, cooling the tears on her face. A closer roll of thunder and the rain began. Small drops at first, then larger, colder drops that hit the ground with anger and spit up drops of dirt and mud. She lifted her gaze from his grave and moved to open her umbrella. In the distance, through the curtain of rain drops, Joan spotted a figure, watching her - a maintenance worker, his tools nearby. The rain now pounded even harder on her umbrella but Joan stood mesmerized. The stance, the build, the way he remained stock still in the pouring rain and watched her until she took a step and then like a frightened wild thing took flight and disappeared....

Cold, drenched, mud-spattered, she stood immobile, her eyes fixed on the spot where he’d been. She talked herself down from running after him. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the Cambridge dictionary: if someone is in the wind, they are missing ... especially after escaping.


	4. My Fair Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July 4 - Include a favorite book or work of literature in your entry today.
> 
> I think we all know Shaw’s Pygmalion and it’s professional fanfiction counterpart, My Fair Lady, right? Don’t want to spoil anyone.

Joan pauses at the kitchen’s entrance and watches him. He beats eggs like they’ve personally offended him. Sherlock sensing her entrance calls out to her over his shoulder, “Making scrambled eggs for lunch. Interested?”

“No thanks.” She comes over and waggles the phone in her hand before him. “I’m getting tickets to see My Fair Lady. Interested?”

He puts down the whisk and stares at her, dramatic disappointment pinches his face. “Is this an attempt at humor on your part, Watson?”

“I just thought it would be nice to...”

He unapologetically talks over her, “Me? Go see a musical? And not just any musical but one that destroys the intent, the beauty, the logic of its source material?” He vehemently shakes pepper into the eggs at a rate that makes Joan glad she declined his lunch invitation. Sherlock continues without pause, “George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion is an insightful dissection of the class system. In the musical, the characters of Higgins and Eliza are romanticized to the point of being disrespectful. Taking characters and manipulating to fill the masses’ fantasies about eternal love and ...”

“Stop!” The rise in volume of her voice catches him off guard. He closes his mouth and stares at her. “I asked if you wanted to go to the theatre with me. A simple no thank you would have sufficed!”

“Sorry, Watson.” Sherlock gives her that soft “forgive me” look he reserves only for her. “I will attend the musical with you if you wish.”

“Thank you.” Joan smiles at him and leans in for a kiss. He happily obliges.


	5. Partners in every thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July 5 - image prompt - if I knew how to, I’d link it but I’ll describe it instead. Night image, almost silver, black and white of fog and rows of trees with a ghostly image of possibly two persons walking away.  
> PS - I think I was able to place a link to the image in the story! 
> 
> Hurt and comfort. Atmospheric, hopefully. Assumes you know about Holmes’ concussive condition. 
> 
> I’m too tired too proof for grammatical errors and misused words. Tell me if you find any.

Image [here](https://cdn.pixabay.com/photo/2015/03/26/09/53/park-690533_960_720.jpg)

Joan strained to open her eyes. The night air hung thick with fog; a haze clung to the trees. She blinked and blinked again ... two men, or was it one .. she squeezed her eyes shut. Gravel bit into her cheek. A sharp pain radiated outward from where her head had slammed onto the ground. She forced her eyes open again ... two men ... walking away, yes, two... A sudden panic gripped her. She gasped for air as she struggled to lift her head. Sherlock! Where was Sherlock!

A small groan to the right of her gave her a second of relief. He was alive. Joan carefully turned and again struggled to see in the dim light. Sherlock lay face lay face down on the ground and was attempting to raise himself on an elbow.

“Watson,” he hissed. “Watson.” He repeated her name with more urgency as he scraped his body across the ground towards hers.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” she lied. “I’m here.” Leaning on one arm, she managed to get herself into a quasi-sitting position. Sherlock’s head found rest at her thigh. His breath ragged from the exertion of getting to her, he lay for a moment trying to regain control of it.

Her hand alighted tenderly onto the back of his neck, her doctor’s hands instinctually moved to examine his head for injury. “Did you lose consciousness? Did they hit your head?”

“No, Doctor.” His words were warm against her leg; she could almost feel the the sarcastic smile on his face. “I did not re-injure myself.” Sherlock bent his head upward, training his eyes on her face. Seeing her condition, he struggled to get himself up until his head was level with hers. “You...” his fingers touched her chin gently as his eyes took in the details of her injury. “You are NOT alright!” The low blue-white light of the street lamps gave her face a deathly pallor, accentuating the cuts and blood on her cheek.

“I’m fine.” She tried to move the intenseness of his concern away from herself. “There were two of the, got the files, all the photos of the crime scene ... and my purse.” She added the last with an attempt at a smile.

His eyes bore into hers as his fingers traced her jawline, tilting her head slightly to better see the extent of her wounds. “Right!” With a sharp intake of breath, Sherlock sat bolt upright and winced with pain. Patting at his jacket, he found his phone and called Marcus, requested immediate medical assistance and returned his attention to her.

Joan was feeling woozy, suddenly weaker. Sherlock put his arm around her and carefully directed her to rest her head against his shoulder. He held on, smoothing at her arm and talking, asking questions to which he knew the answer.

“I know what you’re trying to do.” She moved a little closer to him. “I do not have a concussion.”

“Good to hear.”

Joan shifted her head and took in the odd positioning of his leg. “Is your leg...”

“Yes,” he answered before she finished the question. “Broken, in several spots.”

Marcus and the EMTs found them in the quiet of the fog, sitting in a puddle of light, clinging close into each other, holding each other up.


	6. In case of emergency break glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July 6 prompt - In emergency break glass: Include broken glass in today's entry
> 
> I overthink these prompts I think ... next prompt I’m going back to humor and a lighter style, I promise. But for now you get this ...

Sherlock watched her from across the table, partially obscured by the screen of her open laptop, her face impassive, her eyes focused only on the screen. His questions and comments met with polite nods and shrugs and glib responses. 

The crime scene yesterday had been horrific. Carnage was the only way to describe it. And for an hour or so, until the call came through, they had believed that Emily and her family were among the victims. Once Watson knew her friends safe, she shut down, threw herself into the work without a further word. Sherlock’s various attempts to get her to talk about the incident were met with icy silence or the terse and oft-used lie, “I’m fine.”

A story told to him by one of his short-lived nannies sprang to mind. A story about a beautiful princess encased in a glass coffin. She was asleep, alive but untouchable. He no longer remembered all the details of the story but that image had stuck with him. The nanny was, of course, summarily fired by his father for attempting to fill the boy’s head with nonsense. 

Sherlock sighed. As alien as it was to his nature, there was only one course of action left. This was an emergency. She could not continue to retreat further into herself. 

The loud scrape of his chair’s wooden legs across the kitchen floor caused Joan to jump and pull her attention away from her screen. Sherlock walked around to her, “Stand up, please.”

“Why?”

“Just stand up.” His urgent tone led her to comply.

Sherlock took a step towards her. Without a word, and in the manner he had learned from her, placed his hands on her shoulders, brought her to him until her cheek rested at his chest and wrapping his arms around her, gently pressed her closer. 

Joan stood stunned, rigid at first, but her body soon betrayed her brain and broke her. She almost collapsed into him. Her arms wrapped tight around him and with a deep exhalation, she buried her head beneath his chin and held on. 

Sherlock tightened his grip on her and let her cry without a word.


	7. Marcus comes to understand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> July 7 prompt - Use a non-English phrase or quote in today's entry.

It used to irritate him. But as with many things regarding Holmes and Watson, Marcus had learned to accept it. At crime scenes, in public, even at the precinct, whenever Sherlock and Joan needed to communicate privately, they spoke in Mandarin to each other. Quietly and quickly. Being a good detective, he noticed a pattern. In parting, their conversations would end with the same phrase. He asked them about it. They told him it was a form of saying good-bye. 

A murder in Chinatown had the detective interviewing the only witness to the murder, the elderly Mr. Hu. He had been very cooperative, volunteering vital information.

“Thank you, Mr. Hu. This helps immensely.” Marcus shook the man’s hand and offered the only Mandarin phrase he knew. “wǒ ài nǐ.”

The old man looked at him oddly.

Marcus wondered if his pronunciation was off. “That means good-bye, right?”

The old man’s face cracked into a smile. “No, young man. It means ‘I love you.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandarin: wǒ ài nǐ = English: I love you (pronounced wuh I nee).


End file.
